Trace: First rule of baseball: Nothing is sacred. Guy code. We tell each other everything—you’re fooling yourself if you thought he was going to keep that shit on lockdown.

Me: And now everyone thinks I’m dating YOU??? That’s the LAST THING I WANT PEOPLE THINKING. WHAT IF MY DAD FINDS OUT?

Trace: Your dad’s an asshole, no offense.

Me: None taken **eye roll**

Trace: Don’t get salty, I’m just being honest. Your dad doesn’t like anyone, so there is no one you could bring home that he’d approve of, player or not.

Ugh. He has a point.

I concede.

Me: True.

Trace: Just come to the party. I promise I’ll behave.

Me: LOL

Trace: I’m being serious. We can even have a safe word, so if you feel uncomfortable while we’re there, just say it and we’ll go. No questions asked.

I stare at that declaration, a bit surprised, chewing on my bottom lip, debating. As much as I hate to admit it, I’m warming up to him. Warming up to the idea of going to the dumb housewarming or whatever it is.

Glance down at my pajamas. They’re the same ones I wear a few times a week, swapping them out for my other boring pair here and there. My “single girl pajamas,” as I call them both, because they’re old and worn and comfortable and I would die if any man saw me in them.

Me: What kind of word?

Trace: You choose.

Me: Literally any word? And I say it and we leave?

Trace: Yup—any word or phrase. Say, for example, you were talking and wanted to go and said wiener. I would know it was time to leave.

Me: As if I’d be able to use the word wiener in a sentence casually in front of all those people.

Trace: It wouldn’t have to be in front of anyone—you could whisper wiener in my ear.

This has got to be the strangest conversation I’ve ever had with a man, in my entire life.

Me: Um, yeah, no.

Trace: What about smegma. Or moist. Ointment.

Me: LOL

I laugh, imagining the look on a baseball player’s face—or a wife’s, or a girlfriend’s—if I used any of those words in a sentence.

Trace: Wanker. Phlegm. Plunker. Flaps.

Me: No! Where are you coming up with these?

Trace: It has to be a word that is distinct so there is no mistaking it’s the escape word!

Me: I get that, but does it have to be gross?

Trace: What’s gross about the word plunker?

Me: LOL

Trace: Fine. How about…Daddy.

Me: LOL

Me: Nice try—I am NOT calling you Daddy in public.

Trace: So what you’re saying is, you’ll call me Daddy in private?

Me: LOL NO!

I laugh again. Honestly, he’s making me laugh and I cannot stop now that I’ve started snorting.

Trace: Do you have any better suggestions?

Me: Literally any of my suggestions are better than those.

Trace: Fine, let me hear them.

I sit back, leaning against my headboard, and tilt my chin up to stare at the ceiling. Hmmm, what are some good safe words?

Me: What about if I said something like, “I think I forgot to close my bedroom window.”

Trace: Ummmmmmm it’s not supposed to rain.

Me: Oh. Duh.

Trace: Let’s just go with ‘gizzards’ and be done with it.

Me: LOL

Trace: Are you actually laughing out loud or just trying to make me feel good?

Me: I’m laughing out loud.

Trace: Good, I don’t want your pity LOLs.

I laugh again but don’t tell him that. He’s making it damn difficult to be irritated with him.

Me: Trust me, I use them sparingly.

Trace: I’ll come grab you at noon and we can figure it out on the way there. What’s your address?

Before I can think twice about it, I type it out and hit send.

Shit. Shit! I hit send? I hit send. Ugh!

Trace: Noon. Dress casual, swimsuit optional. It’ll be fun.

No way in hell am I bringing a swimsuit.

Me: I already regret this.

Trace: LOL

Trace: We’ll have fun, don’t worry about it—leave it to me.

It’s not the fun I’m worried about—it’s the ‘leave it to me’ part, and the fact that I feel too comfortable with a man who is clearly not the kind to settle down and have a family.

I might not be that old, but I know I want kids sooner rather than later, and a home, and a life that’s far different than the one I grew up with—a life filled with parents who fought constantly, because Dad is a workaholic and made Mom miserable, and probably cheated on her every chance he got.

Our life might have been privileged, but it was a gilded cage I want no part of living in.

Trace: Noon?

Me: Whatever you say, Buzz…

5

Trace

To say I’m shocked at the sight of Hollis Westbrooke’s apartment complex is an understatement. I was expecting a high-rise on the waterfront or a brownstone in the cool part of the city. Perhaps even a shiny little condo in a pricier area.

Instead, the address Thomas Westbrooke’s youngest daughter texted leads me to what can only be described as the shady part of town, or at least the opposite of where I was expecting her to live.